


Siege of Erebor

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Erebor Reclaimed, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo & Frodo Baggins In Erebor, Bilbo is So Done, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Frodo Baggins in Erebor, Hobbit Culture, Khuzdul, King Thorin, M/M, Miscommunication, Overprotective Thorin, POV Thorin, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Protective Thorin, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin Oakenshield Is a Dork, Thorin-centric, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Uncle Bilbo Baggins, Uncle Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year T.A. 2975, a great battle was fought outside the gates of the Lonely Mountain. In later generations, it would be known as the Siege of Erebor. Thorin Oakenshield, King of Under the Mountain, found himself in a grave confrontation against two Hobbits of the Shire, Consort Bilbo Baggins and his young ward, Frodo Baggins. The two creatures ambushed the isolated King, pelting him with blows from their expertly made balls of snow. It seemed the fight would be easily won, and Erebor lost to Hobbit usurpers. But soon his two sister-sons, brave young souls unyielding in their loyalty, aided the King. Thus commenced the greatest snowball fight in all of Dwarven history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siege of Erebor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】伊鲁博围城](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14346807) by [bestvest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestvest/pseuds/bestvest)



> If you’ve read my 26 Days of Bagginshield, you’ll recognize the first section, but don’t worry – it’s all new after the first break!

Something colliding with the back of Thorin’s head had the King whipping around, Orcrist drawn. Another attack came immediately, and before the battle-hardened warrior even had a chance to dodge the blow, he found himself with a face full of cold, hard wetness. Spluttering, the King wiped his eyes free, gloved hand coming away covered in snow.

“What in Mahal’s name?” he growled, glaring out into the vast white-blanketed field.

A giggle came from his right. Spinning, the King turned just in time to see a small figure appear out of _nowhere_ before running down field. The tiny frame gave away the creature instantly.

“Frodo!” Thorin yelled, running after his Hobbit ward. “We must get inside –”

The King stopped short as he was pelted with _three_ balls of hard, clumped snow.

“Run, Frodo, run!” The Consort’s cry was unmistakable, golden curls popping up behind a suspiciously barricade-like pile of snow before ducking down. Frodo ran as fast as his little legs could take him, and Thorin watched, flabbergasted, as he dove behind the stronghold with his elder cousin.

“Bilbo, what are you doing?” he yelled, charging towards them with heavy, angry steps.

“We have come to take your throne,” Bilbo chirped merrily, jumping up for a moment. “O Mighty King!”

The Dwarf’s jaw fell in shock, a perfect target as Frodo’s sweet, innocent face appeared, right before both Hobbits lobbed their balls of snow.

Thorin threw up his sword, and he was lucky enough to dodge _some_ , but the Hobbits’ aimed proved true and fast. His face appeared to be the foremost target, perhaps to cloud his vision and encourage disorientation.

Ducking, the King hurriedly packed together his own ball of snow; the fire ceased for a moment, and likely the enemy was doing the same. Still kneeling, Thorin squinted across the field. Aimed for his target, the Dwarf threw his arm back before dealing a powerful blow. A satisfying squeal came from behind the snow fortress, followed by a very angry Consort slowly standing up. The ball had hit his plump little nose, but no amount of snow could conceal his glare.

“You’re dead, Thorin Oakenshield!” the Hobbit yelled.

The King found himself grinning, adrenaline pumping at the promised duel. There was a heap of snow further down the valley – shoveled to make a path for the entrance of Erebor. It was much larger than the measly mound the Hobbits had created, and Thorin raced towards it, zigzagging a path to avoid incoming blows. Leaping over the snow pile, he ducked his head between his shoulders, majestically rolling into safety. Immediately he began clumping dislodged snow together, making sure to pack it tightly. Though he did make a group of smaller, looser snowballs for Frodo – clearly the boy was being held against his will; Thorin would have to bring him back to the right side.

As another liege of snowballs flew over his hunched back, Thorin grinned to himself.

The game was afoot.

 

Despite the vast size of Thorin’s fortress, it proved inadequate; the Hobbits had actually spent time building theirs, packing material in and shaping as they wished. The Dwarf’s was simply a pile that had been conveniently shoveled together. Thus as the Hobbits took a break to renew their weapon supply, the King began reconstruction.

First he pressed the snow in, creating a sturdier foundation. More snow was piled on the top, until the King could almost stand without revealing himself. Yet the wall itself was thin, and as a multitude of attacks was suddenly released, the fortress shook with each blow.

“Dammit,” Thorin growled, dropping to his knees to force more layers against the foundation.

His efforts were for naught, as the section buckled under the unyielding force. Yelling out, Thorin rolled out of the way, but not before a massive shower of snow hit him. Panting as he recovered, the King inspected the damage. His hair was clumped with snow, braids fraying and mussed. Biting the material covering his hand, he quickly ripped off his glove, chilled fingers hurriedly brushing snow out of his precious plaits. Even the beads had not survived the blow, intricate engravings filled with white powder. Chest tightening in panic, Thorin pulled his marriage braid from the depths of his disarrayed hair, staring in shock at the white covering the precious bead his beloved had endearingly struggled to make. Warming it in his hands, the snow quickly melted away, yet Thorin’s rage still seared through his veins, white-hot.

Jumping up and brandishing a clump of snow, he ignored the cold seeping into his now bared hand. “How dare you desecrate my husband’s honour!” he yelled, ignoring that he was, in fact, yelling this at his husband. Forcing all his fury into his throw, Thorin felt a powerful satisfaction at the hefty dent left in the enemy’s barricade. “You will pay for this!” he swore before ducking down to create more ammunition.

 

The King was surveying the landscape, plotting strategies when he spotted two familiar figures. Relief flooded through the besieged Dwarf and he took the moment of respite in attacks to set off. Keeping low to the ground, Thorin stealthily approached, finding himself strangely thankful for greenery as he used foliage to conceal himself whenever possible.

“Fíli, Kíli!” The brothers froze at the urgency in their Uncle’s voice, turning in unison to spot the King crouched behind a bush. Ragged and covered in rapidly melting snow, Thorin panted, catching his breath. Doubling over from exertion, Thorin waved the youths towards him. “Over here!”

“Uncle, what’s going on?” Fíli called as they raced over.

“Are we…under attack?” Kíli asked, confused by his Uncle’s disarray, though the Dwarf did not have any visible wounds, nor any weapons brandished.

“The Hobbits are trying to usurp!” Thorin claimed, immediately hurrying back towards his fortress.

“What – Bilbo wouldn’t do that!” Kíli cried indignantly.

Thorin halted, spinning around and grabbing his sister-son’s shoulders. “I came out of the mountain, hoping to find my son –”

“He’s not your son,” Fíli quipped, a line necessitated far too often.

“Only to find him taken prisoner!” Thorin continued, unperturbed. “The Burglar is aptly named,” he growled threateningly.

“But…Frodo is Bilbo’s blood relative, and you’re only –”

The King spun on his traitorous heir. “He is _family_ , by blood or not! Now,” Thorin stepped away, eyeing the two suspiciously. “You are with me, or you are against me.”

“Uncle, I don’t really – ouch!”

The snowball battle-hardened elder immediately ducked out of the way of the incoming blows, leaving his sister-sons to be pelted mercilessly.

“What was that?” Kíli cried, shaking his head to remove all the snow.

“That was our enemy,” Thorin yelled, jumping to his feet. “What say you, my kin?”

“It’s a snowball fight?” the dark-haired Prince asked, dodging a blow.

Thorin turned to his sister-son slowly, expression slackened with betrayal. “You know of this treasonous assault?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

“Of course!” Kíli cried. “We used to always play – uff!” The Prince groaned, clutching his side where his brother had elbowed him rather sharply.

“This is clearly some Halfling malevolence,” Fíli interrupted, face blank and tone serious. “We will help you fight back their forces, Uncle.”

Thorin nodded solemnly. “Very well. Our main target is Baggins – he is the mastermind behind this. We need to capture Frodo, alive and unharmed. I’m afraid this is the only way to win.”

 

“This place is covered in snow!” Fíli remarked as they skulked towards their territory.

Kíli gasped, turning to his brother and smacking the Crown Prince’s chest. “Their ammunition is limitless!”

Thorin paused in his steps, turning to face his sister-sons – his kin – his _heirs_ – with a pained stare. “As is ours,” he drawled finally.

Fíli, at the very least, had the decency to look abashed. His brother, on the other hand, pumped a fist in the air in excitement. “All right!” he cheered.

As they approached, the pummeling of snowballs came harder and faster than ever; the Hobbits were rallying their forces, trying to overcome the Dwarves before they could reach the safety of their fortress.

“Take cover!” Thorin shouted, throwing his body forward to land face-first in the snow, safe behind his walls once more.

Fíli and Kíli failed to follow in their Uncle’s (admittedly dramatic) footsteps, forced to throw their arms up as poor shields. Their clothes were already soaked, hair and braids a mess, but at least the boys were whole and hale yet.

“They have been training for this since children,” Thorin lectured immediately, crouching down as the wall trembled from an onslaught of blows.

“Uncle, what are you talking about?” Fíli cried, looking up from brushing the snow off his clothing.

“That blasted game of conkers!” the King shouted. “It’s their battle training.”

“I thought that was just a kid’s game!” Kíli exclaimed.

His brother huffed, interjecting, “I am sure it is.”

“Does this look like a game?” Thorin yelled immediately. “Their aim is unrivaled, and they can build ammunition much faster than I.”

“How will we ever beat them?” Kíli breathed.

The King smirked, turning to his sister-sons with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We are Dwarves,” he stated needlessly, arms spreading to gesture around them. “We forge weapons, tools, and machinery unequaled by any other race. Can we not create a simple fortification out of snow?”

Fíli and Kíli crossed their arms in unison, eyeing the current stronghold with critical gazes. “It’s quite pathetic at the moment, Uncle Thorin,” Fíli divulged finally.

“What?” the King seethed, shutting his jaw with a sound snap.

“Well, it’s just…a wall, really.”

“We need to make it more strategically advantageous,” Kíli offered.

“And how, pray tell, may we do that?”

“If we get enough snow piled up,” Fíli plotted, “I think we could create a second level.”

Kíli nodded consideringly. “We could build a staircase into the wall, maybe even a lookout!”

“Melekûn are short as it is,” Thorin said, grinning wolfishly. “They will not stand a chance.”

 

Across the field, Bilbo Baggins and his young cousin Frodo took advantage of a lull in attacks to indulge in some scones. Having planned a fun-filled day in the snow in advance, the Hobbits came prepared. They carried with them a large basket of food, filled with decadent pastries and sweet fruit. Both had brought extra pairs of gloves, and wore multiple layers. Cloaks lined the floor of their fort, so they could sit comfortably without their clothes becoming sopping wet. Scarves wound around both their necks, easy to tug up to warm their delicate noses.

“What is taking them so long?” Bilbo mumbled between a mouthful of buttery pastry. Glancing over his shoulder, all the Hobbit could see was a wall of snow. Gulping down the rest of his treat, Bilbo stood, absentmindedly brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. Spying across the field, his hairless jaw dropped.

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried, waving his arms in a desperate bid to gain the Dwarves’ attention. “What are you doing, recreating Erebor?”

Thorin looked up from the important task of cutting a parapet into the new second level of their fortress, Orcrist as his hammer and chisel.

“We are building a kingdom, impenetrable by little Halfling invaders!” the King yelled, quickly turning back to his work.

Kíli popped up onto the second story as well, arms laden with bricks of snow. “Oi, Uncle Bilbo!” he called, waving to the Hobbit enthusiastically. His efforts awarded him a smack to the back of his head from his Uncle, who quickly called him back to work.

“For Yavanna’s sake!” Bilbo muttered under his breath. “Only Dwarves would turn a _snowball fight_ into something so bloody dramatic!” Cupping his hands over his mouth to call out once more, he yelled, “Would you hurry up, at least? It’s getting cold!”

“Perhaps you should have thought twice before taking on the Line of Durin!” was the immediate, haughty reply. “Clearly we are superior in every –”

Thorin’s bragging was cut off as a ball of snow hit him right in the face, Bilbo having grabbed it the moment his vexing husband had chosen to open his Aulë-forsaken mouth.

 

Thorin spluttered, spitting the cold substance out of his mouth. He stood still for a moment, shocked by the sudden, audacious hit. Recovering from the betrayal, he grabbed a snowball in each hand, raising them in the air. “Du bekhar!” he yelled, waving his hands as he urged his soldiers to arms. “Du bekhar, du bekhar!”

Jumping down from the construction, he rounded on his sister-sons who gazed up at him with wide, slightly trepidatious eyes. “I have had enough of these insolent Halflings!” he growled threateningly.

“But surely you don’t mean Frodo, Uncle!” Kíli cried.

Fíli nodded immediately, agreeing, “Frodo would never mean you harm!”

The King nodded slowly, considering. “Aye,” he amended. “Bilbo Baggins is the true problem. We must take him down, at all costs.”

The King and his heirs clasped a hand on each other’s shoulders as they bent together, strategizing.

 

As the Dwarves spent their time sweet time plotting, unbeknownst to them, two small creatures padded towards their precious fortress. Each carried a coat filled with hard-packed snowballs, fully prepared for the final siege.

 

Blood coursed through Thorin’s veins, adrenaline preparing him for the heavy cost of battle. Halflings were quick and light on their feet, but they would be no match for the brute force of Dwarves. Muscles shaking as Thorin clenched the snow in his hands, the King took in a deep, bracing breath.

With a short nod to his heirs, he vaulted the wall, crying out, “Khazâd ai-menu!”

Two brave warriors followed their Uncle’s lead, echoing his battle charge.

Together they descended upon the measly Halfling fort, triumph warming their cold-tightened chests as the enemy cowered out of sight.

Suddenly there was a cry followed by muffled groan as Fíli was attacked from behind, the force of the blow forcing him to the ground. The King turned, spurring words on the tip of his tongue when there came a startled yelp from his other side, Kíli bombarded into a graceless heap.

Whipping around, Thorin threw up his arms in defense, awaiting the attacks that had felled his nephews. Aged eyes squinting as he scrutinized the battlefield, all the Dwarf could see was an endless blanket of white snow.

“Fíli,” he hissed, taking his eyes off the landscape for but a moment to check on his eldest sister-son. The Dwarf groaned, slowly bracing himself on shaky arms. “Kíli, get up!”

It was as the King turned to the youngest Prince, calculating the risk of helping Kíli to his feet that the enemy appeared, casting off their invisibility in the blink of an eye.

“For the Shire!” Bilbo yelled as charged towards the King, hurling snowballs faster than he could possibly make. Frodo giggled, racing after his guardian, lobbing smaller, softer blows.

Thorin was helpless to defend himself, throwing his vambrace-covered arms in poor mockery of a shield. It soon became clear the attack was focused on the King, the Halflings cunning enough to focus on the leader.

“Save yourselves,” Thorin yelled, dropping to a knee as he was overwhelmed. “My sister-sons!”

“No!” Kíli yelled, desperately scrounging up any amount of snow to retaliate.

“We are sons of Durin!” Fíli echoed the words spoken to them years ago, in a very different (yet strangely similar) situation. “And Durin’s Folk do not flee from a fight!”

Together the brothers stood, defending their Uncle to the last. Bravely facing the enemy head on, they easily dodged the blows of the startled Halflings. With a valiant cry, the Princes of Erebor tackled the smallest usurper to the ground, falling to the snow in a pile of victorious laughter.

The remaining Halfling fearlessly charged towards an already wounded King. A fighter till his last breath, Thorin’s stiff fingers desperately clumped more snow together, but his efforts proved futile. The breath was forced out of Thorin’s lungs as Bilbo flung himself on top of the Dwarf, using his considerable weight to crush the Dwarf’s vulnerable middle.

Brushing away thick, snow-covered clumps of long, grey-streaked hair, Bilbo grinned down at his foe. “So we meet again, Oakenshield,” he greeted far too merrily. Scowling fiercely, Thorin’s fingers dug into the snow, blue eyes narrowed scathingly as he attempted to knead a weapon into shape. “Nuh-uh-uh,” Bilbo tutted, grasping the King’s wrists and pinning them above his head. “Do you yield?” he asked, pitching forward until his warm breath ghosted over Thorin’s chilled skin.

“Never!” the Dwarf hissed, struggling against his bonds.

“I’m afraid it’s too late, anyways,” Bilbo drawled lazily, sitting up and jutting his chin behind them. Thorin tilted his head, suppressing a groan as he saw both his heirs trapped under a giggling, triumphant Frodo.

“I will never yield,” Thorin growled, jerking his arm just hard enough to pull out of the Halfling’s lax grip. Bilbo’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he found himself pushed rather gently into the snow, the King grinning above him before leaning down for a searing, passionate kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, feel free to check out my other works, and come talk to me on tumblr - under the same name! :)


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